


No Room for Affection

by rillrill



Series: Best of Enemies [2]
Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Hand Jobs, Lifestyle Porn, M/M, Snowballing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when Gavin drags out the quasi-foreplay – the endless teeth-gnashing waiting – for an hour and a half before he deigns to touch Richard. Then there are the days they don’t even make it out of the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Room for Affection

Richard’s halfway through his regular scheduled late-afternoon internal meltdown – he tries to limit himself to one each day for the sake of efficiency – when his phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He groans when he sees the name onscreen and hits ‘decline.’

Five minutes later, he’s pacing outside, out front. Doesn’t trust the privacy of the office bathrooms or an empty conference room. He hits redial on the recent call from “G B,” and he waits.

“You should come over,” says Gavin as soon as he picks up, and Richard sucks his teeth, irritated.

“It’s 4PM.”

“Suit yourself,” says Gavin, “but I promise I will make it worth your while,” and his voice is placid enough that Richard is just curious enough to chase this rabbit.

“Fine,” he mutters, “be there in 45,” and he hangs up on Gavin mid-chuckle.  
 

The drive to Gavin’s is quicker than usual in pre-rush-hour traffic, and he sits in the driveway for a few minutes before his phone lights up with another call. Gilfoyle. Probably some new crisis back at the office. He tosses his phone into the passenger seat and locks it in the car as he takes the side door into the house, where he’s met by an expectant, waiting Gavin.

There are days when Gavin drags out the quasi-foreplay – the waiting, the endless teeth-gnashing _waiting_ – for an hour and a half before he deigns to touch Richard. Then there are the days they don’t even make it out of the kitchen.

Richard’s okay with the latter. Gavin’s got him crowded up against the kitchen counter, and the only real problem is that this kitchen – designed for many other things, smart-tech embedded in every imaginable surface – was not designed for sex. As Gavin kisses a messy line down his throat, Richard shifts his weight to steady himself, knocking his heel against the baseboard –

“Fuck!” The cutlery drawer pops open, and he slams it shut with one elbow as Gavin pauses. Stops kissing him with a slight smirk twisting his thin lips.

“My apologies.” Gavin doesn’t sound apologetic in the least. “While we’re at it, let me–” He swipes along the cabinet, and the lights dim dramatically, the fluorescent grey-white turning incandescent and golden. Richard blinks, but says nothing. Gavin returns to kissing his neck, deftly unbuckling Richard’s belt with nimble fingers, and murmurs against his jugular, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Uh?” Richard blinks again. “A few days, I guess.” He counts them in his head. Five, maybe. No, six. Not much of a dry spell, in his estimation, but then again, he wasn’t having much _regular_  sex on a _regular_  schedule until this whole – mess – developed. (Not dating. Never dating.)

“Mm.” Gavin scrapes teeth across his adam’s apple, then presses another chaste kiss there as he pulls Richard’s cock from his boxers – half-hard already, _traitor_  – and strokes him a few times, magnanimously, like he’s doing Richard some great favor. “I’d say I missed you, but that wouldn’t be true.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Richard says tautly, but his hips buck with the motion of Gavin’s hand and he can’t hide the fevered little hiss that comes out between his clenched teeth. Gavin notices. Gavin smiles, just as taut and knowingly, and lays another toothsome, punishing kiss on Richard’s open mouth. 

Richard stumbles, holds out a hand to steady himself on the counter. The cabinet to the right of his head swings smoothly open, and Gavin breaks away to give him a look of frustration colored with an aborted laugh. “Stop touching the fucking counters,” he says, “or–” and here his hands slide upward to grip Richard around the waist. “Grab my shoulders,” he says roughly, and as Richard does, Gavin tightens his grip and hoists him up to the counter.

“Don’t touch the countertop,” Gavin repeats. He strokes Richard’s cock a couple more times before he dips his head, lips brushing just over the tip. The entire day has been just dissociatively surreal enough that Richard, unquestioningly, obeys, and he watches with hands hovering above the counter as Gavin – all dark treacherous eyes and knowing sneer – opens his mouth and tongues the head, before sinking further down, throat opening easily around him.

The back of Richard’s head hits the cabinet behind him with a dull sort of thud, and the lighting in the kitchen changes from incandescent yellow-golds to a dim, icy blue. He watches through slitted eyes as Gavin begins to suck him off in earnest, lips and tongue working overtime as his fingers dig into Richard’s thighs. His hair is still perfectly coiffed, that fucking pompadour Bruno Mars-ass blowout – Richard doesn’t hesitate before he sinks his own hands into it, guiding Gavin’s head. “Shit,” he hears himself mutter, and he waits for Gavin to pull off, but he doesn’t, not for another couple moments.

They both let out a ragged breath as Gavin lifts his head, and it’s fucking obscene, his lower lip a little swollen and wet. “Been a while since I did  _this_ ,” Gavin says, low and taunting, and Richard rolls his eyes and slides his hands back into the stupid head of hair in front of him. Gavin gets the memo, gets back to work, and Richard’s hips snap up slightly from the counter as his cock hits the back of Gavin’s ( _smug, ruthless, would-sell-him-to-Satan-for-good-publicity_ ) throat and then keeps going. 

“Fucking show-off,” Richard grits out, because he is – though it’s sour grapes, really, Gavin’s so much better at this than he is. Gavin swallows, hums in agreement, and Richard gasps as he _feels_  it. “Fuck, fuck, get off, I’m gonna come.”

But Gavin doesn’t get off, just keeps bobbing down further on Richard’s length until Richard digs his fingers deep into his scalp, the world tightening around him. And then it’s exploding and Gavin does nothing, sucks Richard dry until he’s spent and keeps it in his mouth. Richard closes his eyes, drops his chin to his chest, and then he’s met by Gavin’s mouth against his, tongue pushing past his pliant lips, the bitter taste of his own come in his mouth –

He almost gags but accepts it anyway, lets Gavin kiss him hot, open-mouthed and nasty, all tongue and power until Richard, eyes still shut tight, has no choice but to swallow it. It’s only then that Gavin pulls away, lifts a hand to pat him ( _affectionately, that was_ affectionate, there's no room for affection here _, fuck him_ ) on the cheek. Thumb brushing over the plane of Richard’s cheekbone, that knowing little smirk flitting back across his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Richard manages, and Gavin just smirks a little more broadly.

“You know I love the taste of your come,” he mutters, and it’s  _not fair_  that those words send a jolt down Richard’s spine,  _not fair_  that it makes him shiver a little and makes him want more –

The cold blue lighting of the kitchen does Gavin’s sharp cheekbones strange favors from this angle. Richard weakly hooks both legs around Gavin’s waist, pulls him closer. “Fuck you,” he repeats, but he can see that Gavin is hard in his pants, and he’s met with no argument as he starts to tangle with the sleek buckle of his belt.

Gavin's mostly hard; it only takes Richard a couple strokes to get him there. With his other hand, he reaches around to the back of Gavin's neck, and pushes him forward into another punishing kiss, more teeth and tongue than lips. He can still taste his come on Gavin's breath, and it's making him  _hungry_ , stoking the fire his orgasm didn't even begin to extinguish. He doesn't want to come again so much as he wants to see Gavin fall apart. 

"Fuck,  _Richard_ ," Gavin breathes as Richard sucks on his neck, scraping with his teeth, all of it surely hard enough to leave a mark. He keeps stroking him, does his best to multitask. The two tasks are hard enough to juggle without Gavin talking on top of it.

"Shut up," he snarls against Gavin's skin. Drags his thumb across the slit on the upstroke this time. He's leaking, must be sensitive from the way he shudders against Richard all over -  _Good_. It'd be so easy get him off efficiently and get the fuck out, but that runs counter to what Richard wants. "You want to come, Gavin?"

"Fuck," Gavin says again. Richard pulls away, watching him blink, oddly dazed. He stops moving, holds Gavin's cock with a loose hand, but Gavin's hips keep going, trying to fuck his grip. He's staring at Richard, sex-stupid and reckless, and Richard feels almost sick, but in what he  _thinks_  is a good way.

"Stop moving," Richard says, but his voice shakes as he says it and it's not an order so much as a plaintive request. 

"Okay," says Gavin, and he does.

There's a strained silence between them, before Gavin tips his forehead against Richard's, resting it there with his eyes shut, and it's too intimate, it's too much, and Richard can't fucking stand this. He starts stroking Gavin off again, this time with a quick, practiced hand, a little twist on the upstroke that makes him shudder - and then Gavin's falling apart at last, capturing his mouth in another frenzied kiss as he spills into Richard's palm and over his fingers.

The idea strikes him in a flash. He breaks the kiss, pulls away as he takes away his hand, and lifts it to Gavin's lips.  _Gross_ , he thinks halfheartedly, but turnabout is fair fucking play. Without breaking eye contact, Gavin accepts two fingers in his mouth, sucking them clean, cheeks hollowing around them - tongue darting out to lick the rest of his release from Richard's hand.

Richard, despite himself, makes a choked little sound. This shouldn't do anything for him.

"I should go," he says, pulling his fingers from Gavin's mouth with an audible pop. He waves his hand under the sink behind him, but the faucet doesn't turn on. Waves again. Keeps waiting until Gavin, now looking distinctly amused, swipes on the countertop under the sink and Richard's hand is met with a flood of cool tap water.

"Ah," says Gavin, sounding a little disappointed. "I was going to make dinner. If you want to..."

"No, I really should go," Richard says, a little more firmly. Something tugs inside him. That's a bridge too far. "I, uh."

"Or we could just order something," Gavin adds. It sounds like a last-ditch effort. A Hail Mary. Richard falters.

"Okay," he says after a moment of hesitant worry. "Yeah, I guess. That's fine."

They have sushi delivered. It's fine. Later, Gavin pins him against the bedroom window, fucks him while muttering about the Santa Clara Valley watching. It's fine. The night is fine. 

Richard can't afford for it to be anything more than fine.


End file.
